My Way of Living:
strength training

Editor's Note : This is a work of semi non-fiction. However, the names of the protagonists have been modified for purposes of confidentiality and artistic license. Or rather, because it would make it hella awkward to refer to myself in the 3rd person. Enjoy.

The View From Within. 3 days to go.

Elvis woke up in a cold sweat, the uber firm mattress of his ramshackle hut shooting a distressed signal to his lower back - a signal currently shared by his uber throbbing head. Am I really doing this? The requisite round of self-doubt that comes at the fortnight of every major milestone haunts him continually. In the world of brash, semi-competitive sports replete with fancy coaches and six-figure equipment, weakness is a word that is often regarded with general disdain. Like an unwritten code. The figures who move around the transcendental discipline of triathlon are considered by some to be the fittest people on the planet, an elite fraternity who have mastered the operational synergy of competing in three consecutive yet radically differing sports.
If triathletes comprise less than 1% of the population, then probably just 1% of that number would ever do a full iron-distance race. And as much as popular culture would continually lionize the annual Ironman branded event held somewhere in the Bicol (and soon to be Visayas) region, multisport habitues don't skip a beat in pointing out that the distance covered there only amounts to 70.3 miles - or half of the seemingly insurmountable 3.8k swim, 180k bike and 42k challenge that is staring down Elvis in the face. And he's the one blinking.

Was he in over his head? After all, this was only his second season in the multisport arena, his first full one if one was to be technical about it. Unbeknownst to many, he hadn't even swam an open water race until April, and here he was just several months later rubbing elbows with battle-scarred veterans at one of the highest levels of the sport. There was no room for failure, no cushion to soften a misstep. In Camsur, there were thousands of triathletes who made it easy to get lost in the throng of anonymity. At Timex 226 in Bohol, the first full iron-distance race in the country in nine years - there were only 66 official participants. The spotlight was on, and there was no turning back now.

The Race Director was in a heated discussion with his deputies, on the verge of making a decision that could forever alter the destiny of the one man that was still on the swim course. "Should we let him go through? There's no way he'll make it to cutoff. It's nearly 9:30 and he is still so far out on the course." "Boss, maybe it's time to pull the plug" intimated one deputy. Unwittingly enough, The Girlfriend was right beside them, privy to the conversation. "Oh come on guys. He'll come through. I know he will. Please. Just wait a bit more. He'll... .. he'll make it. " The Race Director knew very well of the pain of fallen comrades missing swim cutoffs in competitions past. The heartbreak of losing all those long months in training at the very first leg is not one that goes away easily. After a long sigh, a pained gasp had him looking at his concerned deputy. "Let's see what this guy is made of".

History In The Shadows. 1 day to go.

The water was clear. Crystal, even. The astounding coral formations were virtually within one's grasp. The serene setting that greeted their traditional pre-race "swim out" resembled more of a picturesque diving site than the usual murky contact sport battlefield that they had been accustomed to. Elvis wondered if it would pose some semblance of a distraction come race day. "Water's terrific. That was probably my best swim ever. What fun." chided PK, his team's top gun and one of the race's seeded favorites. But as PK was having a season for the ages, Elvis was quietly engrossed in his own quest for history, albeit shrouded in relative anonymity.
Over the course of the thirty eight kilometer mini bike recon they performed immediately after, Elvis found his thoughts drifting to delusions of grandeur as they passed by the sleepy countryside. In the world of triathlon, to the upper tier he was a relative nobody. Swims just above mediocrity at best.Underachieves on the bike. Usually too gassed to make anything sensible happen on the run. His naturally competitive ego had been squashed time and time again like an annoying critter over a season that began with so much promise, yet went down in flames due to injuries and a demanding new job that ate up his training hours. The instant success that had met him in the running community was nowhere to be found in multisport. Improvement was slow, expectations high. Victories were sparse - even those of the moral kind. Some made the transition effortlessly. He was just plain lost in the muck. Elvis was conspiratorially holding on to one last ace up his sleeve though, much akin to a rounder betting the house on a river straight with a junk hand. It provides cool comfort to his tortured athletic soul, a veritable salve that enjoins him to soldier on when he has nothing more to give. Conjures up confidence where there is none to be found.

None of these guys have ran a hundred miles. He mutters to himself furtively as he downs his fancy salad at the welcome dinner that night. The participants have all converged at the swankiest resort this side of town, and the hearty plate of spaghetti seems like easy pickings for the voracious horde. As the rest of the athletes listen to the welcome remarks of the affable congressman, his mind wanders off once more as he scans the crowd of tanned faces. Yes. I'm the only one who's done it. No one here has lasted as long as the 29 hours I spent running from Bataan to Tarlac. This is my race. My time. And if I just manage to finish this in one piece, I could be the first Filipino in history to have done both endurance events in the same season. I want it. I want it bad. I'll get there. I know I will. And as much as his notion of "history" is generally unverifiable and borderline trivial, it gave him at the very least that intrinsic swagger such a herculean task necessitates. He needed it. It was the only way to stack up amidst a sea of excellence."More pasta babe? This is way too much for me." Elvis was jarred out of the daydream by his girlfriend AJ holding up the oversized plate to his face. A wildly successful bag designer, she forever links two epic endurance events mostly obscured from the general public - one was when she outraced him running 102 kilometers two years ago, one that he once thought he could never live down but now carries around like a badge of honor. The second was when she paced him, with little training, for the last 60 kilometers of his 29 hour bout with insanity. She was a big part of those happy, painful memories. It was only fitting that she would be here to share this with him. "Babe? Are you getting the pasta or not?" He willingly obliged, knowing that with an anticipated 10,000 calories to be burnt the following day he needed every single kilojoule of energy that he could get.

Wishful thinking as the crowd listens in

The Congressman looked shocked as the withered husk of the final swimmer came through the makeshift barge, some two hours and twenty three minutes after the race had started. "What happened to you? Are you okay?" The swimmer replied, "I'm okay Sir. I think I swam an extra lap. Bites. Lots of bites." The Congressman was aghast. "An extra lap?? What does that mean??" The swimmer blurted out, "I don't know as well sir. No idea. " as he proceeded to stagger across the deserted, powder-white shore.

Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea. 9:17 am.

What's.. what's going on? Where am I? What... just happened? Just as a boxer would lay sprawled on the canvas in the aftermath of a well-placed liver shot he never saw coming, at this point Elvis was at a loss. Dazed and confused was a relative understatement. The long, confidence-building hours at the pool seemed like a distant memory at this point . Did those 4k sessions just go to waste? He was pressing to reconstruct the events that had just unfolded that led to him to suffer through the ignominy of being the only person remaining on the swim course. Chugging along with the flow at the onset of the washing machine... . there was nothing otherwise remarkable compared to the brutal wars in terrible weather he had been in. The same could not be said about the otherwordly scene unfolding underneath though. It's so peaceful and beautiful here,like I'm swimming through a real life painting. The serenity evaporated as soon as the bites came in. What are these things??Jellyfish? Disgruntled plankton?Whatever it was, they were perturbing enough to make him lose focus and ingest heaping servings of salt water. More bites. Face. Mouth. Back. Dammit, I want to puke. And in one fell swoop, time stopped. And everyone was gone.

I must have been lost. He didn't know exactly how it happened. But at around the 1:40 mark, some of his friends in the field had noticed his disoriented shape near the lap turnaround and were motioning him to go back with them towards the shore en route to T1. "Let's go Elvis! Let's go man! We're done!" The Pocari Sweat-toting support boatman was less patronizing. "Sir, turn left! Turn left! You're done! What's wrong with you? You were with them the whole time! What are you doing???" He wasn't thinking right. Or was he? Was he really done? His brain has been inundated with salt water. How could he second guess?
1:40. Hmm. That was just in line with his "usual" times if they were to be extrapolated, and were right along his time trial times in training. While far from being the fastest swimmer out there, he had never sunk to the depths of being last on the course. He swam a decent 47 minute 2k at the extremely choppy Matabunkgay Triathlon, and hit 50 minutes on the murky lake at Camsur IM 70.3. He had an accurate gauge of his modest capabilities, but something didn't feel right about this one. A dozen permutations were racing through his head. What if I missed a loop? He'd be disqualified for sure, his hopes for history sullied even before they began. What if... . I get away with it? A hollow victory is no victory at all , he'd never live it down. What if it's legit? What if these people were right all along? What if... .

"Sir? Sir! Turn left! You're done! " He was at a loss. Faced with the the single- most momentous decision of his triathlon career, Elvis blinked. "No. I got one more loop. One more to go." The road to perdition was not a kind one. In life, there are moments that define you. Test your character. He took great pride in what he did, reveling in the spirit of competition and discipline of training. Out of sorts and with chafe marks burning from each unmerciful saltwater swell, he had to take a stand that would painfully define the succeeding hours to come for him. Embarrassment on the grandest scale was looming on the now deserted horizon, the race an absolute disaster just hours in. But at the precise moment in time, it was the right decision. The only decision. Time was not on his side, and the water which had been his friend for the longest time morphed into his greatest foe. Everything was a slow-moving blur seemingly encapsulated in unforgiving amber. But he had to move forward, had to make that cut-off.
Minutes later a wobbly figure emerged to check in at 2:23 on the makeshift barge, beating the 2:30 cutoff with barely anything to spare. AJ was a wreck, bewildered at what had just transpired as the current last placer jogged to T1. A sprinkling of tepid applause met him, the sympathetic type reserved for the marginal competitor. Sordid comments from bored children sprinkled the air. But at this point he could care any less.He was still in the game. And he still had time to turn it all around.

The last of the Mohicans coming through.

The Doctor was getting increasingly agitated. More than twenty minutes have passed, and still no word from the lonesome rider. She had been at the same table during the welcome dinner, exchanged niceties with his girl, heard the grand stories of exploits past. The guy may have even been minutely endearing to say the least. In a Hippocratic foray peppered with sun-dried faces, he was actually a notch below that of a complete stranger. But her worst fears were slowly being actualized as he was holed up in the bathroom of some random house not too far from T1. Twenty five minutes. Several knocks on the door brought back nothing. The terse silence was finally broken as the lonesome rider emerged, much to the relief of what seemed like the entire neighborhood tuning in to the live spectacle. A feeble "I'm okay doc. I'm good to go" was blurted out before banging his time trial helmet on the base of the low staircase. She thought to herself, when it rains, boy it sure pours. And it sure was pouring on for the lonesome rider as he wobbled back onto the well-paved highway, 170 kilometers away from the next step in his seemingly impossible journey.

Minutes and Seconds. 4:35 pm

Guindulman. Jagna. Guindulman. Candijay. Repeat. Somehow, Elvis was able to soak in the majestic coastal view amidst the painful drudgery of traversing all the major municipalities of Bohol's third district. Thrice. Mentally, one had to take it up another notch at this juncture, lest you be swallowed whole in the moment. The mind could not wander too far from the end-line goal, imperative that all forms of rationalization be tucked away in the far recesses of the psyche. Things like God, I'm cycling the equivalent of Manila to Pangasinan or You have got to be kidding me, my butt's been stuck to this saddle for six hours already do not help one's cause at all. Specially if one is waging a lonely war against the clock, a losing one at that. Each precious second that ticked away meant one step closer to his dream slipping away forever. The pressure was on, and this was his moment of truth. The series of unfortunate events that marred his comeback attempt on the bike leg saw him sinking deeper and deeper into what seemed like an inescapable rut. The chafe marks that were burning his skin at T1. The severe stomach cramps and lightheadedness that had him dangerously veering sideways on the road, an involuntary dismount a very much abject reality. The thirty minutes he spent throwing up and collapsing on the bathroom of the quaint rural home that took him in seemed like the coup de grâce of a race destined to be forgotten. He was doing the math in his head. There's no way I'll make it. I'm done. Droplets of tears began to form as the onset of his discombobulation was mercifully obscured by his weary sunglasses.

Fighting a losing battle.

They call it second wind. Every athlete's final, primal scream for glory was the last stop at Desperation City, and Elvis very well knew that basking in its glow way too early would have its dreadful ramifications. But it was win- or- go- home time. Put up or shut up. No tomorrows. 28k kph. 30. 32. 36. 38. His speeds were climbing, the holy ghosts of Bugarin aiding and abetting him on one last ride towards the sunset. Or rather in this case, before the sunset. He was back in business, riding with renewed power and purpose so much to the point that the lap checkers swore that he was a loop ahead. The hills that had taunted him earlier fell prey to his raw, testosterone-fueled charge. The usual impish grin that had been missing all race long was making a long overdue appearance. But he wasn't out of the woods. Not just yet. He was so far behind the cutoff that even averaging 29kph over the final 60k had him doing calculations to the nanosecond. A van pulled up from behind, much to his surprise and chagrin. What in tarnation could it be this time? "You're doing great Elvis. Hang in there. One last push. 25 minutes to cover 10k. Lots of time." The race director was upbeat in his concession, the response garnered overwhelmingly in the affirmative. Everyone's on the run now. Please just let me make it. Furiously pedaling through the tough, final rolling stretch as the rest of the field slogged through the initial motions of their marathon, he pleaded with every last drop of his long depleted glycogen deposits to take him home. Please... let me make it. Just a bit more... .. And seven hours, twenty two minutes and fifty seven seconds after he departed the same beachside plaza a hopelessly broken man, he entered with a flourish reserved only for those who had twice averted disaster, this time with ten minutes to spare. AJ was grinning from ear to ear, her drawn out smile ten parts happiness and ninety parts relief. Adrenaline was pumping in his veins as he prepped for his pet discipline.
Let's get this show on the ground.

Red lining on empty

The Major had finally reached the pinnacle of his epic journey, the much coveted finish line he had been training on for months and slaving on for hours but inches from reach. As the crowd burst into raucous applause in anticipation of his grand moment , one could practically hear the snap of jaws dropping collectively as the unthinkable just happened. The Major stopped dead in his tracks. He turned around. Frantic discussions between him, The Race Director and The Host initially brought confusion. Then clarity. Before long, a singular, defining mantra emanated from the surreal scene that just unfolded into the bewildered crowd. A relieved hush came over as the significance was settling in, four simple words that would serve as an inspiration to all those who had the pleasure of witnessing history in the making.

No. Man. Left. Behind.

Peace By Inches. 10:40 pm

I started too fast. I... . can't do it. Elvis seemed to be resigned to his fate as his bodily functions were shutting down one after the other on the near-pitch black looped course. Much of his training has been concentrated on the run segment, and was secretly hoping a powerful split would elevate his finish time to respectable levels. He had done it before, each runner he overtook providing snowballing adrenalin as he marched towards the line. The problem was that he sort of forgotten, amidst all the ruckus that went down, that This is a marathon I'm actually running. After all that crap. Marathons are... hard. Despite his best efforts at making up time, the same body which had already given out so much was balking at his one last request for glory . The remaining vestiges of his warrior pride were driven by the motivation not to finish dead last, a dubious honor that has thankfully escaped his clutches over his four-year athletic career. The first half went down breezily in two hours and twenty minutes, a sub-5 performance and eternal retribution pretty much on the horizon. As much as AJ was incessantly worrying that his protracted rest breaks at the end of each loop would have some sort of detrimental effect, Elvis brushed her concerns off with uncharacteristic candor. I got this. I'm good. We're doing great. He was in his element, the party atmosphere that met him at each loop seemingly empowering the closet competitive nut. We're going to shock the world.

Alas, the real battle was being fought out there, in the trenches of darkness. The out and back loop's first five kilometers were a rolling segment that he would have cinched on fresh legs, but currently seemed like an endless mountain even Sisyphus would have balked at. He saw his Quest 825 teammates interspersed at various points in the course, all fighting their own personal demons. PK was staggering along in a halting sprint with his gaze to the floor, fighting to keep up with his powerful elite rivals. Long distance barefoot specialist RR was once again defying the odds with his unique craft, and Mcdap was harnessing mind over matter in what was his first marathon attempt. Kap, Tars, and Elti were sandwiched together in a methodical Galloway approach , looking worse for wear but nonetheless soldiering on. All were proven, powerful athletes humbly submitting to the might of the 226 kilometers that they have traversed. Who was he to think he could do any differently?

Bonk, meet Elvis. He was utterly, absolutely spent at this point. Aid stations were conspicuously being closed one after the other, the sleepy provincial avenue plunged into a pitch black abyss as the clock was nearing the the 11th hour. The eerie silence was punctuated by the occasional dog barking, accentuated by the neighborhood toughies talking shop as they grabbed the requisite nighttime drink. The only thing that kept him going was his trusty Energizer headlamp, providing the much needed ray of light that was much more than a cheesy metaphor at that point. He has used the same lamps at his 100-mile conquest, invoking the spirit of the bunny that kept going on going when his mind was slowly losing its lucidness. Right now, with five kilometers to go, he could have sworn he saw the Energizer bunny in front of him. Mocking him, cajoling him. Dude, can't you keep going... and going... like me? Wimp. He was running with his eyes closed in blatant exhaustion as he reflected upon the situation he was mired in. Having already walked the last ten kilometers, his dream of vindication was in tatters. Dammit. I threw it all away. But Elvis could hardly protest. For all it was worth, he was just thankful to even be in this spot. Attempts to chase down his comrades proved futile, his body and spirit in full lockdown. He was roused from his zombie-like state by an unknown competitor, the same guy who had been giving him the thumbs up each time they bumped into each other on the course. I'll wait for you at the finish line my friend. Just a bit more. Nice guy. That's what they all say though. He thought nothing of it as he was rationalizing his fate, inch by painstaking inch.

If I keep up with this pace I'll probably be the marginal finisher, if I even make it at all. 16:59 best case. The only guy from his team not to make it. The guy who wasn't even supposed to be here to begin with. He's not one of us. Dark thoughts flashed through the side of his brain that was still working. As he passed the final aid station, the newfound friends who manned it had vowed to stick with him until he finished, no matter how late.With one quick glance at his watch, Elvis heaved one final emotional sigh. Guys, I'm going to run this. And they were going to run it with him, a parade of motley fools chasing one last shot at glory. One last attempt at respectability. One last stab at joining the pantheon of warriors who had shared the experience with him.

Elvis shot out at an unthinkable 5:20 pace, harnessing every single last ounce of strength that remained on his sunburnt carcass. The aid station guys were struggling to keep up, weirded out as he was audibly muttering what seemed like a Gregorian chant, eyes wide shut. But in reality he was digging back into the time that he was but kilometers away on his 100-miler and wanted to collapse on the unforgiving pavement. AJ was hollering something, but he couldn't quite make sense of it. It was all coming back now.

Finish strong. Stop whining. No tomorrows. Make history. The final turn beckoned, and he shot out with everything he got. Once could almost feel the electricity in the air as the line that had eluded him for 16 hours and twenty minutes finally beckoned. He sprinted to the line ready to take his moment in the sun... when the entire congregation suddenly yelled STOP!!!!. What was going on this time??? What the?This is my moment!! The momentary disorientation that pervaded was replaced by an indescribable level of gratitude. It was the guy. The guy who told him he would wait for him at the line, and he wasn't bluffing. Major had finished way ahead of him, but had told the organizers about the impromptu pact that he had made. The pact that he had kept his rock-solid word on. Before Elvis could even react, Major emerged from the woodwork as the two finally crossed the finish line with arms raised , fireworks punctuating a fitting end to an improbable race for the ages. AJ was there choked up in emotion, her day-long rollercoaster ride with the fates finally over as her man went through to his own date with history.

Not so fast Elvis.

Triumph in solidarity
Elvis looked around with a sigh of relief, the gravity of his achievement failing to sink in. The deafening cheers. The warm smiles and congratulatory hugs. He may have come in last, but he achieved his goal of not putting in a marginal finish. His body was absolutely wasted, but he made it through with his head held up high. Spirit beaming, competitors and teammates swarmed him as the astute realization finally set in. Triathlon connotes different things to many different people. Some compete to win, some to finish. Some are out there just to test their limits and some to extend them. Amidst the mad rush for personal records and knockout splits, the essence of the game was emanating from the crowd of unique individuals who congregated around him in that one spectacular moment. Individuals who all the know the true meaning of perseverance, sacrifice, and overcoming the seemingly insurmountable. A select group who keeps the tradition burning for the future, even as they revel in the spoils of the present.

And at least, on this night alone, Elvis felt good. Great even. He finally made it. He was finally home.

He was finally one of them.

Last Sunday, all roads led to The Fort as the heavily anticipated New Balance Power Race was finally coming to fruition. Ondoy's onslaught had postponed the race from it's original Sept.27 playdate, and this gave me an opportunity to get myself a slot. As some of you may know, much to my chagrin I had missed the original registration cut, which then compelled me to make the infamous "Hitler finds out he didn't make it to New Balance" video.

I approached the race with a lot of enthusiasm as I would be joining a pace group for the first time ever. This emanated from a conversation on the Takbo.ph shoutbox, which sort of went like this :

GBM : Target ko mga 1:55 ayos nako dun. 1:57 ung PR ko, medjo sagad na.
VVinceth: Kaya yan sub 1:50. 1:45 pa nga. Even splits lang tayo, 5:10 pace lang yan!jix_jixee : Uy ayos yan sama ako!markhernz: Ganun ba? Kaya yan! Game!
TheRunningNinja: Game ako kahit saan, walang inuurungan!GBM: !!!!!!

Meet the Gang
And thus, this ragtag pace group was born. I was hoping that running within a field of excellence, I would be prevailed upon to deliver a performance far beyond the realm of my capabilities. Hence, without further ado, let me introduce you to the members of my NB PAce Group :

Pat aka VVinceth/ The Running Safety Pin

With Bunnyyy
Our de facto anchor, Pat is easily the fastest and best-credentialed runner within the group. 45 minute 10k's and sub 1:45 minute 21k's are a relative walk in the park for him. It was with his relative optimism that we were actually enjoined to gun for a time that seemed to be way beyond my capabilities. Likes long walks on the beach and bunnies.

Jix aka Jix_Jixee
Another known Takbo.ph speedster whose relative pace is always about 5 minutes faster than my own, it is intended that his speedy ways would tow us to victory specially in the latter stages. His favorite movie is "The Notebook", and has an inherent dislike for Piolo that science alone could not explain.

He not likey Piolo either... Mark aka Markhernz/Running my Mouth
In just a few short months, this naturally athletic dude has not only jumped from a 5k to a full marathon, but has posted times most people only dream of in their lifetime. He has a penchant for not finding baggage counters, and is a full-blooded Lasallian (useless trivia)

Masel Man Mark
Sam aka TheRunningNinja
If other pace groups have celebrities like Jaime Zobel deAyala or Tessa Prieto, we have our own celebrity! And he is none other than... Sam the Running Ninja! One of the most recognizable faces in the blogosphere, it never hurts to have him around :P He likes fast cars, and doesn't like motorcycles, hospitals, and Gas station restrooms.

Celebrity Ninja

Starting Corral
Excitement was milling at the starting corral as the 21k runners were herded en masse. I was quite happy that Extribe was enforcing the "no check-in, no-entry rule", much in the same way that Condura does it. This makes for a much more orderly assembly. +1 brownie point to them. As Mark, Sam, and myself squeezed ourselves towards the front of the pack, we realized that Pat and Jix would be banditing the race. Sweet.

Brownie point!
Fun Starting Um, Horn?
As people were revving up for the starting gun, the runners spontaneously burst into laughter as the start of the race was ushered in by... a foghorn. Ooooh. Good vibes.

Foghorns = Quick Laughs

A Blistering Start
The first 10k was highlighted by Pat's even split strategy reaping dividends for our group, as we covered the first 10k below 50 minutes. This had me questioning my positive splitting ways, as I essentially achieved the same result - without feeling like dying after. We gradually lost track of Mark after the 6k point, and Sam was startling the crap out of us with his "fartlek-the-hills-then-grunt-like-the-Olympic-hammer-throw-champion strategy". Apparently, this primal act (like any other) zaps the energy out of even the best of them, and by the 10th kilometer turnaround our celebrity buddy had dropped behind, leaving Pat, Jix, and myself to carry the cudgels for our group.

Primal screams... are fun.

Surpise Surprise!

In a minor shocker, speedy Jix was fading badly at the onset of the Bayani Road inclines. When one of your best runners starts to labor with the route, oftentimes your thought process would get inundiated with self-doubt. Hey, if he's fading, I've got to be next. Which brings us to the next portion of this paragraph, the "Why Did Jixee Fade At NB" contest.

Could it be :

1. He had a hot date the night before who made him mutter "Running Sux" 100 times
2. His date promised him "favors" if he accomplished #1 while finishing an entire bottle of Patron in less than 30 minutes
3. In offering the proverbial olive branch, Piolo offered to hook him up with his Kapamilya friends if he stopped pacing this GBM character, if only to make his future 21k target a lot easier.

Send in your entries, correct answer gets a prize. I'll ask Jixee the answer... ... .tomorrow.

Piolo has done it again!

And Then There Were TwoWith Jix gone, it was up to me and Pat to navigate the course. Having ran with Pat numerous times in the past, including the Botak Ultramarathon, this was not unfamiliar territory. As pacers go, it's terrific to have someone like the Energizer Bunny to drag you along when you're starting to slack off. The heat was starting to set in, and I needed all of the help that I could get.

Keeps going... . and going... and going... .All By Myself... .
Heading up to somewhere around the 13th or 14th km, cruise control mode was suddenly jarred when Ultraman Pat said "Una ka na". I thought, this was bordering on absurdity. No way Pat could fade, I mean, this is a guy that eats 100k for breakfast. I comforted myself in thinking this was a ploy with deeper profound meaning. In retrospect, I should have kept in mind that Pat was tapering for his Singapore marathon the following week. But at that point, with the heat of the sun beating down on me, this took me off my game plan. I had my work cut out for me then.

What's up Master Pat's sleeve?The Exag Hills
From that point on, I would only see Pat one more time. He would fartlek to me, then fade back. Still no idea why he was doing that at the time. But i was steeling myself for the long haul. We had built enough of a cushion that I was on pace for a 1:49 or 1:50 finish if I kept my act together. But then... . the hills happened. Wow. These people know their stuff. What were they thinking?

Cut scene to Extribe Route Formulation Meeting over drinks

Extribe Person #1 : Why not at the end, let's add one loop around Mckinley?
Drunk Extribe Person #2 : Weeeeeh. That's sooooo generic. Make it two! Bwahahahaah.
Sadistic and Drunk Extribe Person # 3 : Whatever! I ain't running anyway! I hate athletic people! Make it three! Bwahahahahaahah!
Chorus: Bwahahaahahahahahahaha!!!!

Scene at Extribe before finalizing race routeSo to make a long story short, they saved the hardest part of the race for last. We did practically three loops around that hilly area in Mckinley stretching to the British embassy and Enderun. Ugh. Under the beating heat of the sun,I surrendered three fat mid-6ish splits towards the end, and our hard-built lead was gone. Thankfully, it was still still substantial enough to snag me a 1:54:01 finish, good enough for a new 21k PR and 111th place amongst a very tough field of more than a 1,000 half-marathon runners. If we had hit out target 1:50 or below, that would have been good enough for somewhere around 70th place. As I said, tough crowd... because at QCIM my 1:57 was good for 47th place. More training! :)

Exhausted Gingerbread folk near the finish courtesy of the irrepresible BR blog
Overall, kudos to Extribe for a good, albeit sadistic job on this race.Seriously though, I had no complaints whatsoever, this was as good as it gets in terms of race organization. Better known for their multisport events, Extribe is slowly building strong brand equity in the running scene. All of their races that I have ran so far have been very good. I know there was a slight snafu with the 10k route, a mystery that has since been solved.
With all things said and done, I'm pretty sure good ol' Hitler is churning in his grave now for missing one heck of a race. :P

Bikes. They have been around since time immemorial, pretty much as ubiquitous as they come. For this formerly indifferent running dude, everything is pretty much all the same on two wheels right? I mean, come on, it's just a bike right? Two wheels, you try not to fall, and everything's cool! Little did I know that there lies practically an entire canon of technical knowledge in what turns out to be a highly sophisticated enterprise. It is within this mindset steeped in naivety that our brave new undertaking begins, my running relegated to the background temporarily.

Tricked out racer here

Being a 90's kid, I grew up going to CCP and the Ortigas area where you could rent them for about P25 an hour. Sigh. Not exactly one to have perfect balance, I had to start with every kid's safe haven- the ever-lovable sidecar. If it was any portent of things to come a decade later, I already had too much pride to ride one with training wheels. Even as a pre-pubescent Gingerbread lad, the machismo (perceived or otherwise) was already emanating. I would rather be caught driving those Barbie jeeps you could buy at Plaza Fair or SM Toyland (cue in... . SM toyland is the place to go, lots of toys, g.i.joe ... .board games, laser guns, so mom, dad let's go to toyland... .we got it all for you! )

Cheers to a bygone era

As I had inferred in a previous article, I had a laundry list of problems on two wheels as a youngster. A foray into the world of multisport suddenly necessitated a real-time crash course on all things biking, which was somewhat of a challenge because I was never really the handyman/let's-get-our-hands-dirty mekaniko type. Heck, I could write about them but to do it myself? Ah now that's an entirely different story. I'll try to relate to you as much of the experience from a total newbie perspective.

Not my sorta thing

Frame
Well, a bike frame is supposed to be self-explanatory right? It's well, uh, a frame. I mean, it's a bike. Just ride it for crying out loud. Apparently, this simpleton thinking didn't hold water in the highly technical cycling world. The frame's top tube has to be just the right size for you , or else you'll be setting yourself for a wide variety of aches and pains. There are common fit guides easily googable, or have one done at your friendly bike shop. My first one was at least one size small for me, hence me feeling like crap after every ride. How much is a frame anyway? The spectrum is wider than one could think. If you're more of the "assemble" type, you could the manong-style bakal bakal ones for as low as P5,000 . Depending on the brand and where you actually buy it, lightweight carbon-fiber frames could range anywhere from P40,000 to more than P100,000. Also, custom-made titanium frames could set you back a cool $2,500 or more. Cheap thrills.

Looks weird but could probably send your kid through college

"Grupo"
Apparently, a bike's groupset is as integral as any other component towards the whole thing. It all seemed Greek or Parseltongue (sorry, couldn't resist the Potter reference) to me when I first got my bike. In common parlance, this is more or less defined as a bicycle component manufacturer's organized collection of mechanical parts. This pretty much includes your brakes and gear shifters (for Shimano {a well-known brand. Wow, parenthesis in a parenthesis, my Grammanazi 7th grade English teacher would be turning in her grave } branded components, this is called an STI, or Shimano Total Integration. Because of Shimano's popularity, "STI" has come to be accepted as a common noun of sorts for gear shifters, like "Colgate" even if it comes from a different brand) , chain, crankset, deraillers (the thing that moves your chains from one sprocket to another to accomplish gearing) et, al. Collectively, these serve as the "engine" of your bicycle, and enthusiasts/serious cyclists pay premium price for any possible technological advantage they could muster.

It's complicated.

There are numerous brands, with perhaps Shimano being the most ubiquitous. I'll try to give you a quick, layman's look into it. The Shimano brand offers different groupset lines, which purportedly cater to anyone from the amateur cyclist to the touring professional. The 2300 is an 8-speed groupset which to be very honest with you I didn't even know existed before I wrote this article. It's probably in the bottom rung of the foodchain, and most professionals will find an 8-speed set lacking for their, well, professional needs. The Sora is a 9 -speeder, and it's a very decent groupset specially for those starting out. It's also what's in Ultramarathoner Abby's roadie, random trivia.

Next in line is the Tiagra, which someone once compared to a Toyota Vios or Honda Jazz if you want to quantify it in car terms. . Noooot sure if that's completely accurate. The 10-speed 105 is probably the most commonly used, a very decent groupset you could go to war with. Is this the equivalent of an Altis or Civic? No idea. My groupset is a well-worn (aka old) 9-speed 105 from a forgotten era. It hasn't failed me so far. On the upper end of the spectrum are the Ultegra and the Dura Ace. A brand new Ultegra set is more expensive than my entire first bike (named Bob, check the old article), while a brand-new Dura-Ace set could either buy you a 2nd hand Honda Hatchback or serve as downpayment for that dream home of yours. Whew.

Car... .. or bike parts?

Aerobars/Seatposts
Since most of do bike within the context of multisport, aerobars are more or less a must-have. Ever see those ultrafit triathletes crouched in that weird but cool-looking position? The aero position is designed to save your legs for that run portion and if executed correctly, propel you faster through the magic of aerodynamics. Thing is, the bikes your Ironman idols are riding on those Youtube clips are made specifically for triathlon. Meaning, they're specifically expensive. Not too uncommon to find P250,000 Italian-made tri-bikes around the corner. While that's a tad bit unrealistic for commoners like you and me, the tipid meals solution would be to buy clip-on aerobars ( cheapest would be about P2,500 a pop) combined with a fast forward seatpost ( anywhere from P2,500 - P5,000) for your road bike. The fast forward seatpost changes the seat tube angle frame from 73° to 78°, effectively moving the rider 38 mm forward in replicating the fancy tri-bike's geometry. Note, without the fast forward seatpost it would be quite difficult to maintain aero position, so these two add-ons usually come hand in hand.

You could put a down on that house already.

A practical fix.

Wheels

Same thing with wheels. High-end brands like Zipp or HED which specialize in deep, lightweight, aerodynamic wheels that are more or less made to make you go faster. They spin a lot faster too. Maybe that's why you go faster. Smart. Smirk. Anyway, the eye candy factor notwithstanding though just to get your head out of the clouds these are very painful to the wallet. The set that Olympic champion Fabian Cancellara was using in the photo in the previous paragraph could easily north of P120,000. Fun. On the other hand, if you could care less about aerodynamics and just want your bicycle to run, a decent pair could be had for as low as P3,000. Hmmmm.

I'll get my bling bling one day.Sniff.

Helmets

Whaaaat? Even helmets? It goes without saying that helmets are there for one thing - to prevent your brain from becoming mush on the floor in the event of some horrible accident. Cool. Of course, leave it to modern technology to somehow figure out a way to "pimp up" your standard issue helmet. While a basic helmet could go as low as P500- P1300 depending on where you get it, a tricked out aerodynamic helmet that "makes you go faster" with matching water vents to boot could set you back a cool P10,000 easy.

He's faster already

Cycling Shoes/Cleats

The quintessential newbie rider's rite of passage. People speak of it in hushed, even fearful tones, like it was the Loch Ness Monster or something. Some riders go on for months still wearing sneakers, avoiding the big jump at all costs. Why the fuss? These shoes have cleats that latch on to a special kind of pedal, allowing for a more efficient stroke and the added power benefit of an upward pull. If utilized correctly, these make for probably the most immediate improvement in terms of performance.

So if bike shoes are such a godsend, why do newbie cyclists speak of them with relative dread?

Well, there's always a caveat, and here's the rub. Once on bike shoes, you're practically "glued" to your bike, and you could only disengage by doing a nifty outward twist move. That nifty move takes some time to practice, and that extra half second it takes could be enough to niftily knock you down in the classic "semplang" move - even while you're still attached to the bike. Without the benefit of just putting down an emergency leg for leverage and balance, things could turn ugly in a hurry.

Face the fear
As it is, the thought of having no safety backup is mortifying to a lot of novice cyclists. It's just one of those things that's easy to procrastinate over, but at the back of your head you know you have to face it eventually. It was with this mindset that I decided to get my first pair, "just to get it over with". This little conversation at the bike shop where I bought it from did nothing to assuage my fears :

Bikemann : First time mo ba mag cleats?
GBM : Yes pohz
Bikemann : Ah ok. Sesemplang ka.
GBM: !!!!!!

And indeed, the deadpan oracle had spoken. Ironically, over several months on no cleats I had done a treacherous 120k road race, a duathlon and triathlon with no incident whatsoever.

Got home, tried on the shoes, and cleated up downstairs in the garage.

BANG. Less than 5 minutes in, I'm sprawled on the ground. Still attached to the bike. Sob. Muscle memory apparently gives way to a lot of bad habits, and it reared its ugly head in real time.

Much like a fallen gladiator recovering from a devastating blow, I staggered up and gave it another go

3 minutes later, same result.

My confidence shaken and knee banged up, I went back upstairs to regain my senses. Alarm bells were anxiously ringing in my head. Is it reaaaaallly that hard? I am really not meant to be a cyclist? Do I really suck at this?

Let's just assume it hurts.
But then again, as that old adage goes it isn't about how many times you fall but how many times you get up right? The following day I was at it again, convinced I could do it. I rode for 20 kms along my familiar training jaunt, so far so good. As I pulled up near the back gate of UA&P, I dismounted to check if everything was in order. Cool. Went back up, did a u-turn, and before I knew it was hard on the ground. This was a really hard fall, much harder than the previous two ones. My STI was jarred to the point of misalignment. To make matters worse, my students had seen me and were prepared to laugh over that silly cyclist until they saw it was me. Oh the horror. Did I mention I was still attached to the bike?

Where's that adage when you need it? I limped home, tail between my legs dragging my bike with me. This was really depressing. All that fuss about fancy frames, groupsets, wheels, and helmets - yet here I was, couldn't even manage to keep myself off the pavement. That in turn invoked perhaps the single most overused line in the history of cycling, hence I'm going to use it again -

It's not about the bike.
Kuya Lance Armstrong probably knew what he was talking about. First time I ever got wind of these figures, I could hardly believe it. Turns out there are two sides to this bike thing - both the competitive side and the hobby side. And maybe somewhere in between where the two sides converge. You could see people spend hundreds of thousands on the aforementioned items, but they're nowhere near competitive. As they say, if you can't perform, japorm. Sometimes, going through the fancy bikes at multisport or cycling events it's easy to see that the sport is also somewhat akin to a grown man's Tamiya . You get the best components, put it all together and talk about it with your buddies over a beer or two while planning your next salary burner.

I have a borderline mid-range bike at best, and I would be lying if I told you that I didn't take some lurid form of satisfaction in overtaking them italian-made, Dura-Ace equipped bikes on a race. On the other hand, how many times have I been lapped and overtaked by manongs with bakal bakal bikes that seem to have been used and abused since the 80's. No aerodynamics here, just sheer brute strength and athleticism. I shudder to think at what they could do with all this fancy technology at our disposal.

Which brings us back to the immortal words of Mr. Armstrong. Truly, it really isn't about the bike. The best bike in the world will be utterly useless in the wrong hands. Or legs , for the matter. You can spend all you want, but these advancements will only be noticeable if you actually bother putting in the requisite saddle time. The competitive athlete is both well conditioned and utilizes technology with maximum efficacy. However, if you could care less about competition and are just thrilled with the science and intricacies of putting it all together, well and good. We'll gawk at your fancy toy during the next race.

He has a pointThis bike thing. It's a fun, crazy thing, and it appeals to a whole wide range of personality types with hugely contrasting goals.

Did I mention I never fell from my bike again after that embarrassing episode ?

Just suck it up brother.

Welcome to the cycling world.

Where it doesn't matter how many times you fall.

Only the number of times you get up...

Editor's Note : This is well, um, about a month late. By the time you read this me and the Quest boys are already on our way to the Tour of Subic, our final multi-stage race of the season. But hey, just read it and hopefully enjoy it nonetheless, I probably spent more time writing this than I have been training. Due to recent changes in my work flexibility, expect a steady stream of backlog features on my recent races trickle in with the week. In chronological order. Cheers.

Quest 825 recently competed at the Pilipinas Cycling League's Immuvit Race Against Time Tour of Clark leg, held in, uh, Clark. It was a three-stage humdinger spread over two days and the team acquitted themselves decently given this wasn't our "base sport" if one would call it that. Here's an inside look at the pain, the agony and the glory behind this particular bike tour.

Prologue

Executive Cycling is one of those "hobbies" that I had gotten into as part of my multisport training. While triathletes in general are expected to go on long training rides to augment their preparations, not everyone has the cajones to join these multi-day, multi-stage races that would require one to ride and latch on, Tour de France-style, to a peloton ( or in the simplest way I could explain it, a big bunch of skinny guys riding their bikes at full speed separated by about hair's width from each other). Why even bother going on to this blatant invasion of personal space, where the slightest human error can cause everyone to crash like a deck of cards in a chain reaction ? We are all familiar with how drafting benefits cyclists through blocking the wind, that's why it is outlawed in most triathlons. But try hanging out with about forty other guys as a big pack, and your speed and efficiency jumps exponentially. It is a highly taxing discipline that requires both aerobic and anaerobic aptitude. Obviously, the inherent risk factor is part and parcel of the whole enterprise.

Alas, a strong bike split race target usually necessitates either superior genetics (dream on) or a solid cycling background ( you have a shot). Given that I am sure I wasn't blessed with the former , I have thus embarked on a journey of self-improvement on two wheels. This is my first full season competing on the executive cycling circuit, having debuted last year at Bike King's Tour of Matabungkay and participated in several other one-day races and tours from that point. Given that Quest actually started out as an executive cycling team, our participation in this race was a no-brainer.

On the day itself, after a late departure from Shell NLEX at around 5:30 am the determined gang scurried off to Clark for the tour's first stage, a 47.7 km Team Time Trial race.

Stage 1 - Team Time Trial. Bittersweet Symphony.

The Team Time Trial event or TTT is usually considered the glamor event of each tour leg. Given that cycling is more of a team-oriented sport vis-a-vis the rest of the multisport disciplines, the TTT is taken as a consensus of any given team's strength and caliber. Such is the importance of the event that rumor has it that some teams intentionally rest their members through earlier stages to preserve their legs for this relatively short event.

According to a passage I blatantly stole from Wikipedia, "the main principle behind a TTT is that a few riders can ride at the front of the formation slightly above their aerobic threshold while others draft behind these riders. The riders then rotate, allowing some riders to recover while drafting behind fresher teammates. A rider who is riding at the front is said to be taking a pull. Accelerations require harder efforts, and therefore it is desirable to have a smooth, steady pace. Different riders have different power outputs, lactate thresholds and aerodynamics. In order to equalize the efforts in order to not burn some riders off too early, the weaker riders take shorter pulls and stronger riders take longer pulls, all at the same speed to minimize the change in pace. A rider finishing a pull usually rotates to the very back of the formation, and the rider who was formerly behind this rider takes over. " Hmm, sounds complex. But the idea is, the team who could sustain the fastest pace without burning each others guts out is the winner.

Over here at the local scene, the TTT event is usually dominated by powerhouse club Fitness First. As for us, the team had steadily improved from last season. To give you some perspective, these things are usually an hour or less of lung-busting, intensely anaerobic, invective-filled fun. There's usually a minimum of five riders and a maximum of nine with the fifth rider to cross for the team coming in as the time to count. Thus, in theory the more people you have on a team the better the chance for your team members to conserve their energy. The thing with our team was, we had more than nine eligible riders, so we split into two teams. I was bundled with Team 2. On my side was team captain Deo, team manager and Ironman 70.3 World Championships finisher James, Army Col. Bong, veteran endurance athlete Ronald, TTT newbie Karlo and myself. All were capable time trialists in their own right, and ultimately this stage would all come down to teamwork and execution. But the paceline was beset with problems from the very beginning... .

A Shaky Start

Right off the bat, we were beset by unforeseen problems. With some teams a no-show for Stage 1, our release time was pushed forward by several minutes. This was exacerbated by the fact that we arrived late at the venue. To make a long story short, we barely made it to the release time and Ronald was caught up with something, forcing him to ride with Team 1 who had a later release. Thus we had one less comrade to stifle the wind and down to five riders, we were left with no room for error. We had been in a similar position at last season's Tour of Matabungkay, and the pressure- wracked, nausea-inducing experience was not exactly one to relish.

Completely out of sync for starters, we struggled to maintain the paceline. With no actual practice but having a general idea of what to do, the team eventually settled down with our speed hovering at about 35-36kph. So all's well and good. Problem was, Karlo was straining under the frenetic pace and it showed through his pained look specially through the inclines near the Fontana area. Now, we all knew that it didn't matter if the four of us kept up this pace - it was the fifth guy's time that would count. So we had to slow down. Frustratingly enough, we were passed by about three teams while going through this process. But this was a team effort, and no man could be left behind.

Man down... ...

At about the 40k mark our paceline was terribly falling behind our target already and was pretty much broken apart. With no breathing room to spare, each of us weren't taking way-too-long turns towing the line and it was starting to show with the suka pace that we were maintaining. Captain Deo and James had valiantly went back to provide the needed support for Karlo, but the effort had gassed them out. With but a few kilometers to spare, we were all running on fumes. The cycling gods finally decided to spare us a break and with about 500 meters to go the entire team managed to get intact in crossing the line with a 32.14kph ave, good for 23rd of 25 teams. Apparently, Team 1 was beset by their own troubles in finishing with a 35.29kph average for 18th place, seemingly below par for their capabilities. These results in no way did us justice at all, and essayed that even if our individual riders were quite capable on their own, there needed to be a strong degree of teamwork at play to maximize our results. Having less riders also exacerbated the situation. Drained and searching for answers, the Quest gang all set off for a quick lunch at SM Clark before stage 2 was due to commence in a few hours. Yep, you read it right. A few hours.

Wasted, rowdy, hungry bunch after TTT

Stage 2. Circuit Race. Lost in space.

The Tower Burger I had eaten from KFC had not gone down yet, but we had to go. Once again, this proclivity towards being late had us on a mad rush. The dour weather conditions were not helping at all, conjuring visions of crashes amid slick roads. Stage 2 was a 60km circuit race, which true its name counts several loops across the same course. In a stricter sense, some use the term criterium interchangeably to describe similar races, although those are usually shorter in nature and involves removal from the race once you get lapped by the leading pack. As a newbie cyclist last season, I haphazardly joined one of these crits which was stockpiled with old pros and looked more like a laughingstock more than anything else. The manongs watching were heckling me miron-style as I trudged along as the last cyclist to be removed from the course.. I'm guessing the aero helmet did nothing to help my case. Oops.

Di halatang newbie.

A year and a couple more thousand kilometers under my belt, I revisit the concept of the circuit race. At the very least, I hope to get the helmet part right. Anyway, going back to the race. Massaging my still sore thighs, the peloton set off amidst a moderate climb in Fontana that was the highlight of the course. The climb was fine, but having to do it several times over at full speed zaps out your legs one way or another. The first loop was designated as a friendship lap, presumably to serve as a weird form of warmup. Once that was over and done with, the cyclists went on a mad dash that would require every bit of anaerobic juice (at least for lackeys like me) on you to keep up. So I was able to latch on to the main pack, albeit the tail end of it. Predictably enough, my suspect conditioning gave way and I splintered with a group of about five riders, by my estimation about ten seconds behind the main packing. And here's where the fun started. Just as I was gaining some semblance of a rhythm, the guy towing us along took a wrong turn, bringing us all along with him. In the fifteen seconds it took us to get back on the course, the lead pack was out of sight. Great. I was slightly perturbed by what happened and I was left with one other guy. So while rushing to get back in it, at an intersection the marshal was signaling to turn right. Or at least I thought so. Turns out his hand gesture was connoting a "stop" to the other cars (geez how could we mix that up. But yeah we did) and I was off-course again. This was a longer distraction, about 30 seconds. By the time the entire thing was sorted out, I was all alone on the course, deflated and demoralized at such an unseemly turn of events.

I thought of abandoning the race altogether, but then again I'm not a big fan of DNF's. Sot suffice to say, it was like riding an ITT over the final couple of laps, a lonely, solitary route that most would not even bother completing. I even saw a crash along the route, which as I would learn later on involved national triathlete Kim Mangrobang, who was due to compete at the Elite Under-23 ITU Asian Championships in two weeks. She would later share that one of those hyperaggressive junior riders cut her, resulting in a crash on those slick roads. Sort of reminds me that in order to be successful in cycling, you just have to be plain fearless in taking risks. I guess it's still something I have to learn over time.

Loner...

I eventually crossed the line in what seemed like forever, much to the bewilderment of my teammates who figured I'm slow, but not THAT slow. Adding to my chagrin, when the results were released I was mistakenly placed in Excutive A, registering as the last rider to arrive in the division of the strongest executive riders. Oh the horror. Once everyone was accounted for, we all headed back to our hotel to freshen up and reflect on the day that was.

The Lighter Side

After a hearty buffet dinner prepared by the PCL people, the team retired to our comfortable villa at Fontana. We later indulged in the company of veteran elite triathlete Rayzon Galdonez and top executive cyclist Makoy Almanzor. You often see these guys in the heat of athletic competition, and it was refreshing to hear them dispensing race advice in equal doses with classic wisecracks. Here are some of my personal favorites :

Rayzon : Yung nakasabay ko sa run na elite na foreigner na babae nung Camsur, tinanong ako, "Are you Okay?" Ang sagot ko, "No, I'm not Okay. I'm Rayzon. Rayzon Galdonez pleased to meet you what's your name?"

Makoy : Panalo talaga ang Red Horse. Pag sa Red Horse, puro Tama, walang Mali!

With hearty laughter resonating from our living room, I quietly retired to my comfy bed, knowing that we would be in for the long haul for the Stage 3 road race the following morning, the longest leg in the tour.

Yum.

Stage 3. Road Race. A Valiant Effort.

An early breakfast at the nearby Mcdo served as preliminary fuel for the 118 km race that would pretty much replicate the TTT route, only it adds a relatively tough stretch on the outskirts of town to make for several 23k loops. We even ran into my Team Powerpuff Boys buddy and ultramarathon star Junrox Roque ( who's starting to become a force to be reckoned with as well in the short-course triathlon scene) hanging with his executive club Aboitiz Power, a team loaded with strong, veteran riders. For one, at least we all have knack for sausage Mcmuffins early in the morning. Having had our fill amidst the friendly banter, we make our way back to the hotel to get geared up.

We're Late Again

As you may have noticed throughout this feature, this is starting to become somewhat of a recurring theme. For some inexplicable reason, even with considerable lead time, we somehow end up rushing towards the starting grid, making it with less than five minutes to spare. As the peloton was finally released for the conventional "friendship" lap, my thoughts were drifting towards the specter of somehow churning in a creditable performance with my thighs already beaten down from the previous two stages. Word was going around pre-race that last year the peloton took it "easy" during the first few laps because of the relative toughness of the course. With this in mind, I was thinking perhaps I had an outside shot at keeping up this time around.

The friendship lap was relatively brisk, and it comforted me that I was pretty much within the same line as the main pack. So far so good, the whole gang was in sight and I was getting a good feeling about this. The rolling course was not easy though, and I pondered on how I could keep up with the frenzied peloton once they released us. The rain had gone away and the sun was slowly starting to beat upon us. Long ways to go for this.

As my luck would have it, the peloton was released just before the Fontana incline. Great. The funny thing with cycling is that the barometer for success and failure is measured in seconds , seemingly indiscernible nuances spelling the difference between victory and defeat. About a second or two before the peloton was released, my mind inexplicably wandered to some mundane subconscious trapping. And before I knew it, poof. Everyone had at least a five second lead (a lot) on me, and by the time I managed to get my bearings I was speeding along at 45 kph in a vain attempt to catch up. I passed by our team captain Deo and screamed "Habol tayo Kap!!" knowing very well that the slightest let up and we kiss this race goodbye. I raced uphill with cajones-shrinking gusto, and before I knew it I was converging with a fairly-sized group who dropped from the lead group. The pace was frenetic, right around 35-36kph during the early juncture and my lungs seemed to be bursting from the sudden rush. As we stretched out into the highway, a familiar uniform pulled up next to me, and I was overjoyed that Kap had mustered enough to make it into the safety of the chase pack. Save for the TTT, I have been working mostly as a loner for the entirety of the tour so this was certainly a welcome development.

Hanging On

The middle laps saw the chase pack dwindle from a high of as many as twenty to roughly about eight or nine guys. The tough course was unforgiving and the heat and humidity were starting to bear down on us. On the flats we'd hit it in the 45's, then would be focused on the low 30's in a bid to conserve. Slowly but surely, we were getting there and actually putting in a creditable performance by our modest standards. As we were lurching towards the halfway mark , we were quite surprised to see Col. Bong struggling alone against the crosswinds. A strong, consistent rider, we were not accustomed to seeing him get dropped by the peloton . He hung around with us until the feed zone, at which point we just lost track of him. We would later find out that he dropped out of the race after feeling the aftereffects of flu-like symptoms from the week prior. With our reserves slowly being depleted and the sun beating down heavily, it was an interesting proposition to just drop out as well and call it a day. But maybe we had enough to still hack it out... .

Going Down Swinging

As we approached the final lap, our original group had pretty much dropped like flies one by one, and with roughly 20k to go it was just me, Kap and two other dudes. We would take turns on the trangko in a bid to conserve energy, but from this point out it was pretty much all guts and glory. Me and Kap would alternately fade out from the group, then claw back with every ounce left knowing that getting dropped at this point could pretty much mean a knockout blow to one's aspirations of a good finish.

With about 10 kilometers to go entering the homestretch, I felt like I was bonking big time. The other dude fell behind and Kap was still going strong. I told myself, I fought so hard to be in this thing all morning, why give it up now? I figured, might as well go down swinging. As your body bottoms out its reserves and gradually starts to shut down, that's where one's mental fortitude is taxed to its utmost. So with as much effort as one could muster, my battered body was somehow able to throw down 37kph for about a 2 kilometer stretch to catch up with Kap, who I gather didn't even noticed that I was gone. Crossing the line together in 4:06 with the last of the Mohicans was as gratifying a finish I ever had in a cycling event. Checking my race data, the finish time was a bit misleading because of all the long stops we took at the feed zone, and the actual speed we maintained was practically 30kph over a distance that mirrors a Manila-Tagaytay roundtrip. None too shabby I guess for someone with marginal, intermittent training at best. Yipee.

Made it.

Epilogue

Overall, the team had a very creditable finish. Erick stuck with the Executive A main pack in all the road stages, which is highly indicative that he is racing at an extremely high level right now. Cycling main man Julius showed his worthiness to be promoted to the "A" level by nabbing 2nd runner-up podium honors in the 35-39 division of Executive B. The rest of the team all showed traces of significant improvement from the last time we raced here, so we all went home happy. A somewhat unfortunate accident during the last stage marred our good vibes though as Wilnar crashed in a freak accident with only a lap to go, bringing down three riders with him from within the peloton. He suffered a nasty gash on his forehead, but in typical manner he played it down even if he looked like one of them WWE wrestlers who open wounds on their forehead with their hidden razors.

That notwithstanding, it was a creditable effort with tons of room for improvement. As for me, it's back to the drawing board on how to get back into top form. Maybe I'll grab a Red Horse while I'm at it. Puro kasi tama diba, walang mali. :P

Looking back,I was never really a swim kinda guy. You know how kids get sent to all those cool summer camps? Swim camp, tennis camp, basketball camp, anything to keep you preoccupied while school's out. I got... .. French lessons and exotic coin collecting.Great. I firmly believe that my overprotective mother was so concerned that I would get "injured" in this "big strange world" out there that instead of doing 500 meters at the pool I was downing 5 gallons of ice cream. All while watching Wacky Races on the i-Channel with this newfangled Sky Cable thing.

Poor kiddo.So to put it succinctly, I never had the benefit of those summer camp skills. I was pretty good with a Sega Mega Drive though (don't you just love all these Senti Sabado 90's references). Never really thought much of it... . much of my teenage and college life you could always just fake it by sort of wading in the shallow part and yapping it up with the gang during those sembreak trips to Bora.Thus... . not knowing how to swim didn't really matter. I rarely did anyway. I grew up. Got a degree. Went into the corporate world. Gained 40 pounds. Swimming was the farthest thing from my mind. It's like the staple party trick that you just couldn't seem to pull off but could care less if you could, like tying the cherry knots with your tongue or blowing plastic bubbles from little Chinese-made tubes.

That's hard.You know what happened next. Fat guy gets into running and loses 40 pounds. Fat Guy is no longer fat after running 102 rounds. Not-so-fat-guy bought a bike and tried this duathlon feat.And then one day he woke up and decided he wanted to be a triathlete.

The impossible dream?Suddenly, my early childhood deficiency came to the fore in a bad way. Triathlete? Maybe more like a Try-athlete, as klitschy as that sounds. Obviously, a triathlete who doesn't know how to swim is somewhat of an oxymoron.So what the crap was I supposed to do?The easy way to go about it was to just let go of the dream. Heck, maybe we're simply not meant to do certain things. Some people freeze up in public speaking, and some can't sing to save their lives. I can't swim to save my life either, so maybe I should just stick to what I know.Maybe it just wasn't meant for me.

Decision TimeI gave it a long hard look. I'm never one to back down from any challenge, but trying to do something that sent shivers down my spine, and at a competitive level at that, seemed a bit of a stretch for me.But then again, that would mean walking away from the dream... ..Pros. Cons. Contemplation. The setting Ortigas skyline cast its gentle shadow on me as I stood on my terrace, my gaze trailing off into the sunset. Should I play it safe? Could I withstand a lifetime of regrets and what if's , all because I never bothered to try?What would you do?

What pill?I chose the red pill . Time to face my fears and man up.Let's give this swimming thing a shot.Home-cooked "training" Emphasis on "training", because quite frankly, I had no idea what I was doing.

Duh.I'm more of the self-help kinda guy. Even with running, I took pride in the fact that I was a self-made man. Not that I abhor any form of outside advice or input, but it just seems that I do better when I learn on my own. So with much bravado, I set out to find as much material online as I could to learn this swim thing.Turns out, swimming is nowhere close to running. And learning on my own was easier said than done. I tried watching countless YouTube videos from all these online "gurus" saying conflicting things. Became part of countless swimming mailing lists, which I came to realize was merely an avenue to spam you with their products. I even downloaded the fun Mr. Smooth animation that supposedly allows you to emulate a "perfect" stroke free of any idiosyncrasies.

He doesn't smile too much.The end result of all these efforts?Epic fail.The info overload from differing viewpoints was a little hard to take in. I mean, for running, you just well, er, run. Once you can ride a bike, it's pretty much muscle memory. But I realized that swimming is a discipline that focuses a lot on technique. Technique that this stiff-armed Gingerbread character did not possess. The quick, rapid improvement that I was supposed to shock everyone with never saw the light of day. Sob.To further exacerbate things, the competitive nut in me got me in trouble again. The Dean's Cup is a UP Law-organized tweener sprint distance triathlon comprised of a 750m swim, 20k bike and 5k run, and for some reason there was this crazy itch in me to join.

With an initial foray into duathlon, there was a certain comfort level with the bike, and the run part is a given. But that 750m of swimming seemed more daunting than 102 kms of running to me at that time. Nevertheless, the "how will you ever learn if you don't bother to try" paradigm got to me again. And before I knew it, I had deposited my cool P1,250 reg fee and was on my way to either multisport glory or the bottom of the pool. (Ulk)Slight problem - Date of Payment : July 22, 2010.Date of Race : August 1, 2010.Sheesh.

Habol ng Habol. With barely two weeks left to prepare, I was scrambling. If I were an egg, I'd be the farthest thing from an easy over. I mean, ano nanaman ba tong napasukan ko? Some people wait months, even years before going for it. Yet here I was joining on another whim. I've come to realize that there are two kinds of athletes within the late adopter bubble- those who want to join with the best training possible so that they could rock it out, or those who join just to see if they can finishand set a yardstick for themselves. Obviously, I belong to the more daring (and should I say foolhardy)latter group.Palawan Chicken Swims In utter desperation, I was fortunate to have friends to help me out. Takbo.ph/Endure Multisport buddies Rico Villanueva and RJ Bumanlag helped me out at the Ultra pool one rainy Sunday afternoon. It was my first time to swim at Ultra, and I was daunted by the size. I had never swam 50m straight before in an Olympic size pool, and it was quite an experience of the lung busting kind. One lap was enough to knock the wind out of me. And you're telling me I had to do this 15 times during the triathlon? Whaaaaat??Significant confidence was still gained though, though I think my stress level shot up a couple of notches. We celebrated a good swim by partaking of sumptous Palawan chicken at Tiendesitas, one of the best dishes I had tried in a while.Waitress : Ser, may kasama na poh na apat na kanin yan... RJ: Ay miss baka sobra yang kanin, tatlo lang kamiRico: Oo nga, baka pwedeng kanya kanyang kanin na lang?Waitresss : Ay di na poh pwede ser package na poh yan. (15 mins later)RJ: Miss, isa ngang extra rice!Rico : Er, uh, ako din miss!GBM : Make dat three!

You have got to try this, take my word for it.One Step Forward, Ten Steps BackWith this newfound confidence, I ventured out(perhaps a bit too haphazardly) to further strengthen my swim skills albeit with poor rudimentary form. A quick visit on a stormy night at the Army pool near Mckinley proved to be a serious speed bump, just when I was gaining momentum. Visibility was next to nil, couldn't see crap. And as I would get to learn later, the pool was shaped in such a way that bouyancy was greater, making for a much more difficult swim.Right smack in the middle of a lap I felt that the pool was so heavy. Soon enough I was tiring rapidly, and before I knew it I was hyperventilating. Meaning I couldn't breathe. Which meant I was freaking out and drowning. Yes, drowning. I tried hanging on to the lane dividers or buoys. Crap! There weren't any! Flailing, panicking. Oh boy, what a disaster. I finally managed to make it to the shallow part of the pool quite shaken and shaking, but more bothered that I had lost my nerve just days before the race.Whatever faux swimming mojo I had before that session just flew out of the window.I couldn't get myself to a pool in the days after. I considered withdrawing from the race altogether, just give up this stupid nonsense. How can I be a triathlete if I can't swim?Once again, maybe it wasn't for me... ..More soul searching. The decision was agonizing. I didn't want to be labeled a quitter. Maybe I could never forgive myself if I bailed. But what if I drown again?With time running out, I ended up with the its-up-to-God move.(it sounds better in the vernacular)I leave it all to a higher power now.

Drowning is not a fun thing.D-Day Race day beckons. Armed with zero confidence and a goosebumps at the mere sight of water, I entered the transition area for body markings at UP with much trepidation. What if I make a monumental fool out of myself in front of everybody? What if I drown well, die? My would- be career would have been over before it had even started.Add in the pressure that this was my first official race under the banner of Endure Multisport, and you have an idea how my brain was functioning before the race. What if I mess up? Would they fire me? Eeek.

Smiles beforehand a mere facade to the anxiety withinSplash So here we go. Moment of truth. Like a salve to sooth my nerves, we were advised that the 750m swim portion would start at the deep, 10 foot part of the pool. Oh great. No one told me the salve came from the makers of chili plaster. I hung on to the pool ladder for dear life and kept to the back of the pack while waiting for our wave to be released.For me, this wasn't just the focal point of the whole race. It was make or break time.

Sob.A final heave, and I was finally done! 750m in 33 mins, how awful. But still, it felt like the weight of the entire world was lifted off my shoulders. I trotted off to the transition area, which was like 300 meters away, my mind set on one thing - making up for lost time.Mash A super slow T1 didn't help at all, and in my mindless zeal I nearly went out with everyone zooming by at full speed. The course was the Acad Oval had an extended, slight downhill followed by a false flat on the other end. I tried going out with guns blazing, but alas I'm not that strong of a biker yet to make it all up. I was passing people, but not as many as you would think.The exhaustion of the swim along with the heat were also getting to me, and was slow up the inclines with no cleats working for me. I overestimated my biking ability and thought I could take it in 40 mins. Not even close. I limped home to T2 in 55 mins, which meant I was barely above 20 kph. Eek.

Speed BagalDash Having no bike shoes has one lame advantage - it makes for a fast T2 transition. I took off my helmet and sped off, according to my teammates, "like a man possessed". Gigil na gigil daw. And for good reason. After trudging through a survival swim and a lame bike, here I was at core discipline. I couldn't wait to get out there. I run a high 21 minute 5k, maybe I could make up for lost time. Of course, we all know that ain't happening. My body had been beaten down severely at this point, and the heat was scorching. Legs felt like they had weights strapped on to them. Managed to pass several at the back end, but not enough to make a dent on my time. As I was sprinting towards the end and my entire team was egging me on, I came to the realization that Hey, I'm actually doing this! I survived!

Just a little more... As I crossed the line with an otherwise pedestrian 25 minute run split for a 1:54:16 total, the sense of accomplishment was overwhelming. Didn't matter that I was last on our team to finish, 56th place overall and 9th in our age group. I was particularly proud that although I utterly sucked out, I won my battle against the water. The phobia was messing with my brain, and I'm happy I stood up and fought it.The route I took was unconventional, and some if not most may not subscribe to it. But to the competitive people out there who wish to take a stab at something new, always remember that nothing is impossible if you only bother trying. If a guy like me with no prior swim skills (and who first encountered an Olympic-sized pool two weeks before the race) could hack it, so could you.

Happy guy.I'm a happy guy. I faced my fear and won a staredown with it. And I'm back to actually tell all of you the tale. My first try at my first tri. Always special the first time around eh? And to think it all came oh so close to never happening... .No what if's here.It matters not how straight the gateHow charged with punishments the scrollI am the captain of my fateI am the master of my soul - from William Ernest Henley's Invictus